


Café Con Leche

by aqhrodites



Series: Spider-Man: College AU [4]
Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College, College Student Michelle, College Student Peter, College Student Peter Parker, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Future Fic, Humor, Kissing, Mutual Masturbation, PeterMJ - Freeform, Peterchelle, Phone Sex, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Romance, Sending Semi-nude Selfies, Smut, Spideychelle, University, University Student Michelle, because some roommates are too nosey and snoopy, but oh well i guess, i honestly don't now what else to put because i'm not an expert at smut, slight - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqhrodites/pseuds/aqhrodites
Summary: And suddenly, it dawns on Michelle on that she's naked. On that she feels just as bare, vulnerable, and exposed as she looks. She recalls how she fell in this predicament.But she isn’t shy. She isn’t coy; she knows what she wants. And she’s loud and outspoken and her teeth graze the thin tissue shell of his ear when she teases him, whispering, "I want to fuck you."





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I had to take this, as well as several other stories, down for a period of time.[The post about it and the reason why can be found on my tumblr](https://milesblackspiderman.tumblr.com/)**

And suddenly, it dawns on Michelle on that she's naked. On that she feels just as bare, vulnerable, and _exposed_ as she looks. She curls into herself, wrapping her arms around her sides. Staring in her long floor mirror, she recalls about how she fell in this predicament.

* * *

The first time Michelle and Peter kiss, it's rushed and quick and vitriolic. She remembers it because there was a quick pull-away, and the blazing purple-red of Peter's ears in the dim colored lighting that was quickly spreading to his face. She also remembers it because she's the one who turns to him in the middle of the movie, blurting, "what the hell was that?!"

He hadn't had a proper excuse—as she expects—as his tongue-twists told for him.

* * *

The second time they kiss— _properly_ —was under neon yellow, green, blue lights. Some alternative band had been playing in the background. Michelle remembers it because it was their third attempt at a date, and surprisingly, it had gone quite well. It ended with an arm looping around her waist, her fingers curling in his hair, and resting on his shoulder. [An electronic song singing about the universe starting _fifteen billion years ago_ plays](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ztpBN-OaEls) somewhere from a street vendor. This kiss had been steady and meaningful and _right_.

She has a spray-paint picture hanging on her bedroom wall bought at the end of the date.

Michelle remembers it too because after, Peter had been wearing the widest, dopiest smile she's ever seen. Her stomach flipping in on itself. He apologizes for rubbing off her lipgloss. He then makes a comment about the strawberry flavor.

* * *

The following school week after their first _right_ kiss, he's still wearing that wide, dopey smile which only shrinks to a small grin until she comes back into sight.

It's their final year of high school, and much has changed.

For one, Mr. Harrington is having all but an actual heart attack at, what he's told, is the last Decathlon meeting. This has been decided as a collected agreement, as all the members are preparing to graduate, and have become increasingly busy. And as captain of the team, Michelle announces this agreement from everyone one afternoon.

At a table in the corner, Ned and Peter sit alongside Charles, listening on and nodding approval. All attention is set on Michelle. And it isn't until there's a decent pause as Mr. Harrington is processing the information does Flash take the opportunity to his from another table.

"What are you smiling so much for, Parker? This funny to you?"

And like that, the attention shifts. All eyes snap over, and immediately the teen's dopey grin is wiped clean.

"What smile? I wasn't—I wasn't smiling!"

"Yes, you were," Flash presses, seeming to not want to let it go. "You've been smiling for, like, the past _week—_ "

"We haven't even been in school yet for a week—"

"Shut up! You know what I mean." He squints, and then, "are you _high!?_ "

Startled, Peter shouts to defend himself. Mr. Harrington butts in with a monotone, "you know the rules about drugs at this school." All the others are watching, waiting, observing.

Peter throws his hands up, repeating that he isn't on any substances.

Cindy squints. Ned face-palms. Michelle sighs, rolling her eyes.

* * *

Ned has walked in on them, once.

It had been after school and Peter said there had been something he needed to do before leaving the school campus, something rather important.

When May had been waiting outside for ten minutes, Ned's own ride becoming impatient, the boy returned inside the building as Peter was no longer answering his phone.

It was in the open space of the band room, up in the back and behind the piano. He's astonished at first, and a little mortified if he's to be honest.

His friend and Michelle were "kissing face"—from his view, it's innocent, and luckily doesn't see Michelle's hand on Peter's thigh or the intense circles she presses in his jeans, or pick up on the softs keens and begs given against her smirking lips.

Ned's squealed sentence of surprise is what makes them pull apart and the air decipate, the two turning away shyly.

Ned didn't waste time to question Peter about it either.

* * *

The eleventh time they kiss was on Peter's bedroom floor, left alone because Ned had been called home early and May went to go around the corner to pick up sandwiches for dinner, leaving the two to finish their game of Monopoly.

It happened spontaneously, and warily. A truth or dare kiss. A _flirt with the hot cop to get out of jail_ kiss. A provocative lean forward that is preceded by slow, languid movements.

Michelle remembers it because, she raises a challenging brow before his puppy eyes shifts, changes. Hardens. Dares. And then his hand is cupping her cheek, her neck; his palms flat and sliding across her waist, up her side and beneath her shirt. There's the catch of breath, a tightening in her chest. His mouth flutters against her lips as he speaks, teases her, moving a game piece across the board without her knowing.

Michelle remembers because she grabs his collar to keep him closer when he tries to turn away.

The seventeenth time they kissed was on her porch step late one Friday night on a school holiday.

* * *

Their twenty-fifth had been during the viewing of a horror flick at the local theatre, fingers of one hand entwined tightly, and Peter turning her face back with a finger when she gets distracted by the film, telling that she "needs to finish what she's started."

* * *

By number thirty, it's like clockwork—whenever they get a moment alone, there's a quick peck of praise on the cheek, or on the back of the hand, on fingertips during a nervous wait, a quick brush on the mouth before the door swings open again.

* * *

By their fiftieth kiss, it's every morning they meet and before they part. It's fleeting goodbye pecks and morose, heated ones when he's returned, riddled with bruises.

* * *

Number eighty-nine had been after a night out with friends following prom. They had been on a self-made web high above in a park, overlooking a section of the city. And Michelle isn't afraid of heights—it's the possibility of _falling_ , she tells, of course.

"It's the female spider that eats the male, you know," she jokes against his mouth.

He tells that it all didn't start with a black widow, this he's sure. "Well that would be disappointing."

"Really? And why's that? It would be more less _annoying_ and dorky, or being slung around the city—"

"Ouch. Hurtful," he jokes, laughing.

* * *

Kiss one hundred and twenty-one was on the day of graduation.

This time there isn't a parting in words—the kiss, deep and in their hidden corner of an empty room, is goodbye enough.

In the next two years, they're split.

Ned is accepted in university near the outskirts of the city. Due to financial reasons, Peter attends a local university part-time.

She knows about a few Midtown alumni who were accepted to NYU, a few who weren't, and Michelle is of the good majority who moves away to attend secondary school. Now, the kisses received are familial over FaceTime, and the occasional Snapchat by super.pparker

* * *

It's two years and six months later, and Michelle is sitting at her desk when her phone goes off. There's a single line on the glowing screen; the next thing she notices is the thumping.

Well, _knocking_ , really. At the mercy of the thick window glass, a heavy-handed, suspiciously irregular rhythm that inspires a fervid, warm lurching in her chest as Peter attempts to get her attention away from her laptop. Boyish, is how she'd describe it. Impatient, and _just like him_. She smiles to herself, rolls her eyes as she spins around.

His face splits into a wide, toothy smile as she makes her way to the window and readies to unlock it. She decides to wait instead.

A hand rests on the window lock. "You're late." She tries not to grin watching the smile wipe clean from his face.

"MJ, open the window." He's six stories up and in nothing but jeans and a pullover sweater—which is _helpful_ because it's getting windy, but not so much if he's going to be stuck out here not in his suit.

She feigns contemplation. "Hm, I'm not sure if I should..."

Now he's looking taken aback and honestly disappointed. "You're supposed to help me with homework!" It's given in an accusation that's like the pout of an overgrown child.

"Did I say that? ...I don't think I will..."

"MJ, it's _cold_ ," he whines.

She snickers, flipping the latch.

He jests that she's such a pain in the ass, that she almost caused their cookies to get cold. Her brows rise, not expecting that.

"I didn't come empty-handed this time," he praises himself that's partially a sly, smartass retaliation. Shrugging off his backpack, he pulls out a still-warm tubberware full of pre-made Toll House cookies.

Michelle nods, retrieving a cookie as she goes to flop on her bed and flip through an rented yet still overpriced textbook. "You brought those notecards I gave you?"

At this, he freezes, one hand reaching inside the container. His guilty look tells that he in fact hadn't.

* * *

The second thing Michelle notices is that Peter is a wisecracker, a fucking _mess_.

They're two-thirds into finishing their joint assignments when she gets up and begins pacing her room, proposing a break. He's sitting on the floor, legs outreached, and playing imaginary drums with a pair of pens.

He doesn't object. It's a full two minutes later that it occurs to her.

"You didn't object," it's said as a sure fact.

He pauses drumming. "What?"

"You didn't object. Usually when we're this close to finishing, you're begging to hurry and finish." Her eyes squint, suspicious.

"Oh—it's—I didn't? It's nothing, MJ."

Her eyes trace him. She's still suspicious. "What is it?"

His voice hardens. He shakes his head, giving a dry laugh. "There's nothing—"

"Then why are you getting defensive?"

"I'm not," and he scoffs.

"You're, like, majorly stressed, dude."

And now, he knows he can't lie for much further. "Can't I just—just come over and do some homework with a friend I miss?"

Michelle gives a pout that she doesn't mean. "...I don't think so, so nah. It doesn't work like that. Because you're still terrible at lying, loser."

This time, a genuine smile begins to grow. "Haven't heard that name in a long time."

"Well it's not certainly _my_ fault."

"Oh?" his brows draw together in play. "And why not?"

"Because it's categorically impossible for me to be wrong. About anything," she prides.

"Do you have evidence to back that up?" he challenges.

Pausing with a hand on her hip, she speaks as-a-matter-of-factly, "of course!" And she goes on about how never, in her life has her argumentative essays ever been debunked or earning a grade less than 95 for reasons not including grammar.

Peter puckers his lips. "I seem to recall a certain assignment back in freshman year, about that reflective piece. The one with the whale—what was it titled again, your paper? Oh yeah," he's mocking now, she's sure, "Mobey Dick and the Infuriating—"

He doesn't finish, bursting into a fit of giggles as she throws the Wookie plushie from her desk, the one he gifted her back in junior year of high school.

" _You're_ a dick," she laughs.

"That's not what you were saying last time," he pokes, feeling bold.

Michelle arches a brow, still grinning. "Watch it, bug boy."

* * *

Anyway.

Peter eventually goes home, and Michelle retreats under her bed covers to spend the last few hours curled up with her laptop.

She scrolling through Instagram and calculating the number of sleep hours she'll get if she opens Netflix when her phone chirps at a Facebook notification.

It's a heart reaction given by Cindy to an old high school picture in an album Michelle forgot existed. She watches a comment pop up, joining the collection of others. The picture is an old group selfie where Michelle had been forced into, smooshed between Cindy and Sarah and a few of their friends surrounding.

Her phone chimes, receiving an IM message. Michelle forgets that she didn't turn her visibility off, so Cindy knows without a doubt that the other is online.

Michelle sighs, types up a response.

* * *

Three months ago, Peter and Michelle began recuperating their relationship.

It had been a split-second decision, an adrenalized snap-action of movement that involved a robber armed with explosive weapon made from Chitauri technology, and Michelle, along with several other bystanders, hurriedly and sloppily webbed to whatever surface they were near to be out of the way of danger, and a very loud, very disrupting, very familiar string of curses that didn't stop when he _finally_ doublebacked and released them all.

There were sentences that included "what the fuck" and how she's late to a class and how he's likely ripped and ruined the brand new skirt she was presenting in for both class and her job.

After all the hot air, finally, he gets out, "I thought you said you were moving _away?_ "

* * *

They have been talking ever since. Mostly over text, periodically over FaceTime.

Which helps—especially with her schedule, and her roommates gone or isolated in their bedrooms with their boyfriends.

Some nights when the particular boy who Michelle doesn't like visits, she plays her music very loudly enough so they could hear it in the next room.

* * *

It's three weeks later when she "randomly" runs into Peter in between getting lunch and rushing home, and it's _odd_.

He's acting odd.

She tells him so, and silently finds it amusing when he crosses his arms and defends that he _can_ be intimidating.

At this, she lets out a loud laugh. "Not to me you're not."

He waves her off. "Yeah whatever."

It ends with a hug that's maybe a little too long, and she tries to memorize his smell, perhaps, and definitely imagines his arms squeezing just a tad tighter, slipping down her waist, certainly makes up his humming sigh—

He parts with a kiss on the cheek and disappears into an alleyway.

* * *

Two days later, she receives a 86 on an exam. Her downfall had been fucking grammar again.

* * *

Over chat, an old high school friend catches up on her life. She's in a steady relationship with her boss, has a job that's around the corner from her residence which she shares with three others. Now, she's dropping heavy hints that she wants to be engaged.

Michelle's fingers hover above the keys. Outside of attending university and a small job at a library, she doesn't bring much to the table.

On the side of the screen, she sees several mutuals log online. She spots the black and white candid of Cindy.

Michelle types that she's catching up with friends.

* * *

Lying in bed, her phone chimes at a message.

 _Hey what are you doing rn_ , she reads, eyes squinting. It's late and she's tired. So her reply is short and to the point.

_**In bed. I'm tired. Have work tomorrow.** _

There's perhaps two minutes that go by, and she's drifting off to sleep when her phone chimes again.

 _When do you get off_ , he asks, followed by a winking emoji at an implication.

 _ **Wouldn't you like to know.**_  she replies. _**Around 5. Why?**_

* * *

The next time they meet, she's sipping tea outside a street cafe, the sleeves of her bluegreen cardigan rolled up to her elbows, and she still can't believe that she put on a swipe of lipgloss for this, golden Macy's watch strapped around her left wrist, and standing outside at a street performance of some guy she doesn't know playing a song on piano she can't pronounce. Beside her, Peter drinks a Starbucks cappuccino coffee from a paper cup. She misses the swipe of his tongue, ridding the whipped cream from his lips.

He makes an off-hand comment about a memory of struggling to teach himself piano back in high school. That he would go periodically after classes, and asks if she remembers.

But Michelle knows damn well there hadn't been much _practicing_ behind those piano keys, her most profound memories being of heavy breathing, him begging—and she tells him as such.

He's quick to correct. "I don't _beg!_ "

"Sure. Ok." She takes another sip. The pianist begins to play swiftly. "You want to do a raincheck on that statement, smart guy?" It's spoken without much weight.

And Peter knows that he shouldn't take it seriously, that it's nothing of a quick retaliation, probably. That, though she's far comfortable with the talk, she's never serious about the act, very likely.

A blush still creeps up his neck, though.

A "Jesus Christ," is muffled by his cup as he takes a drink, swallowing difficult.

* * *

Kiss number one hundred and thirty-five happens outside her resident building one evening.

The tension had been heavy and enticing, but the act hesitant. Because there had been a gap, and this is different than the quick pecks on the cheek, the ones pressed into the top of their heads, on Band-Aids wrapped around fingers and biceps and hands.

She has to initiate the first move. And even with hands around his neck and in her hair, he doesn't mold into it.

And when she's closed her front door, he's already gone.

* * *

One night, she gets an IM message from an old high school friend who tries to rekindle. She tells of how she's in a steady relationship with her boss, that she's working a job that's conveniently around the corner from her residence that she shares with three others, that she's debating to take another expedition to "become one with nature" again while dropping heavy hints about wanting an engagement.

And aside from university and a small job at a local library, Michelle doesn't bring much to the table.

On the right of the screen, icons pop up as mutuals log online, and she catches Cindy's black and white candid photo before it disappears.

Michelle's fingers hover above the keys. She decides to type that she's reconnecting with some friends too.

* * *

Since finding out that Peter attends another local university, their study dates become frequent.

Well, as frequent as they can be without him arriving late, or cancelling, or ditching mid-quiz session, or promising that he'd return without three hours that turn into six and eight later.

And it also doesn't help that his random fidgeting when he's anxious causing him to speak unnecessarily much, or the nervousness he gets when he assumes she's upset, and that the soft pink hue that flushes is face kind of cute; or the kind gestures he gives that are also _super_ helpful, and it's certainly not also his voice low and fresh from a nap that she wakes him with a phone call every Saturday just to hear. And it's totally _not_ because he parades, shirtless, around his room, mostly smelling of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol—and for the times he _isn't_ injured—

Peter's a goddamn showoff is what he is.

He has a very neatly manicured line of dark hair trailing beneath his navel—that he puts on display whenever he reaches up or stretches and Michelle grows _annoyed_.

He's a goddamn tease.

And she wants to trail the line, follow where it's directing. His abdomen is flat, muscled; his chest is broader than she expected, too, currently hidden beneath a black t-shirt. She makes a comment about the A/C, and is unsure if he hears. She doesn't quite care, actually. A thin black cord hangs around his neck, and a silver animal pendant rests just below his collarbones and bounces off as he shifts, clears his throat, flexes because he's been sitting for hours looking at printed texts.

They're supposed to be studying, if the scattered papers and material are anything to go by.

Instead, Michelle's biting her lip, looking between his mouth, collarbone, and eyes as he reads aloud a passage from a textbook. She's registered that he hadn't gained bruises after his recent escapade.

He finishes reading, and the room quiets. From his laptop plays a Spotify study playlist at low volume. And she's beside him on the edge of his university dorm bed, observing and silently judging the Dollar General wall decor in his room, makes a comment that he needs some of better taste, and then she speaks, "I'm hungry."

There are snack wrappers on his dresser, finished hours ago. He agrees that it is about time. "Oh, okay. I'll drive. You know what you wanna eat?"

"You."

The room is silent. The Spotify song fades to an end. And Peter can only assume in the brief quiet that follows that he misheard her. He logically concludes that it was no more than a desperate conjuring of erotic daydream.

Still, seconds go by, his eyes wide with surprise and he's flushing a peculiar shade of red. "Wh— _What!?_ "

She tries not to wince, and shifts on the bed, concludes with her head held higher that making him flush is definitely a turn on for her. "You heard me." Her words fall with more assurance than she felt. "Unless...Parker, there's an issue...?"

"No! No. I, uh, I just wasn't—uh—expecting—you know—"

A chuckle bubbles up uncontrollably. "Are you kidding me? Seriously? With your fuck-me abs you're always parading on display? You're not subtle. Like, at all."

He's still looking stunned. It has been so sudden and random. Then as if a sudden snap, he argues, "well it isn't just _my fault!_ You're always wearing those shorts and—and _those_ yoga pants that _you know_ are semi-seethrough—"

" _Peter_."

The room stops. A jazzy songs begins to play. He swallows. She's starting at him with unwavering surety.

"Kiss me," she initiates.

Again, there's the hesitance. But then he's leaning in close and he's kissing her slow and steady and composed. And it's not like either are keeping count, but when he threads a hand in her hair and his other pulling her closer by the hip, they're kissing firm and _fierce_ , her hands pulling his face closer, if that's even possible, and he's not really sure what's going on but there's rubbing noses and there's tongue involved, and her hands sliding down his chest like she's clearly _not_ feeling him up (she is); and his hands are sliding past the waistband of her bottoms, proceeding to slip inside the silk and lace of her panties when she moans into his mouth, and his mind is racing, buzzing excitedly because _holy shit_ and he's so turned on right now and _she isn't stopping him_. A hand of hers finds a hold in his hair, the other he can feel searching for the front of his jeans, and she fucking _smirks_ when she feels how hard he is before palming him slowly, torturous and teasing, and she's giggling as a keen sounds from the back of his throat.

"What was that about no begging again?" Her words are punctuated by her open palm pressing against his jeans and he gasps. Chokes. Glares, catching on.

But before he finishes the first three words, his fingers are digging into the soft flesh of her side as her hand begins to message him through the fabric of his jeans and he can't—

His cognitive thinking goes off with a fizzle.

He _can't_.

His eyes close. He groans, forehead lowering to her shoulder. Her name comes out in a breathy whisper.

And then Peter's dorm mate kicks down the door and everything pretty much goes to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I make the second part more explicit? Any votes? Suggestions?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **might want to read chapter 1, also**

Michelle first texts him a day later, as follow-up to see what happened.

And then again three days later. There's reply. She wonders if it had been because of that dorm mate.

A week goes by. And then three. And it's edging to be a full month of zero response, she's growing impatient, _highly_ considering marching back up there, barging through the door, to his room, and _demand_ whether he is alive or not—

Her phone vibrates in her left back pocket. It's a short, two words text answering her string of concerned questions: _It's fine._

She doesn't look at her phone for the rest of the day.

* * *

She awakes late to seven missed calls, three voicemails, and finds out that she's late for church on Sunday morning.

She awakes up half an hour after eleven with a fuzzy mouth and a sandpaper tongue, cocooned in her sea blue blanket, and her bedside lamp left on overnight. An empty, open Applebee's takeout container sits, forgotten, on the floor beside her end table; a scenic calendar stuck on March hangs above her desk; her laptop on the floor, its fall what woke her up. A white box fan whirs noisily from where it's propped up against the window.

Abruptly, the overtly cheerful stock ringtone of her phone blares somewhere within the folds of her blanket.

Michelle groans, gingerly sitting up to paw around the bundles and wrinkles. "MOTHER DEAREST" is the name on the bright screen. There is no contact photo.

"Hi," she croaks, before cringing at the texture of her voice, the cotton-thick taste of sleep in her throat. She coughs. Tries again. "Sorry, um—hey."

"What's—oh, they're starting— _where are you?_ " Michelle's mother hisses into the receiver, her tone somewhere between anxious and restless, and a little ticked. "This is [_first Sunday_](https://classroom.synonym.com/how-often-do-baptist-churches-practice-communion-12087376.html); you're supposed to get here, _today_. They're even having performances. I'm going to need you to get your self down here, Miss Beauty Sleep. Your cousin's even here. The one on Uncle Yellow's side, his daughter's daughter. I just found out she's going to be starting high school at _juvie_. Did you know this?"

Michelle rubs her right eye, knowingly smudging the circles of makeup even more. "No, I didn't know that. That's—that's, wow." It doesn't sound enthusiastic.

"Where are you, Michelle? Did you get my calls—?"

"Yes, yes, ma'am."

"Then where _are_ you? You need to get your butt down here. _Don't_ miss this service."

Though the thought is more of a nuisance at the moment, Michelle pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs an agreement in obedience.

Then, as she's up and searching through her underwear drawer, her mother's tone changes. She's greeting someone, Michelle can hear smiles and the muffling of what she guesses is a hug. Then, her mother is back, and whispers, "Miss Perry is here, and the usher said she's sitting right where we're seated. So, on second thought, enjoy your day, sweetie."

"You sure?" Michelle laughs.

She catches a child's faint "save yourself" spoken to the phone still to her mother's ear.

"I'm sure. They're starting."

* * *

Michelle has two flatmates: One is Pre-Med—currently crying at the dining room table, highlighted study guides, underlined vocabulary words in notebooks, and circled important subjects on notecards scattered across the surface. An unfinished cup of apple juice sits at her elbow.

The other had been in Advertisement but then switched to Journalism once watching Michelle for a semester. (And the girl is _slightly_ convinced that this flatmate may be trying to copy her, but that's a discussion for another time.) Michelle can hear this flatmate having another argument with her girlfriend—Michelle hears the name spoken loudly into the phone.

Once retreating to her bedroom, Michelle's tv turns on to the local news channel. It shows the upcoming predicted weather and then a preview of an upcoming news story. The screen switches to a camera view of Spider-Man taking several heavy hits from a criminal clearly wearing body enhancing gadgets, and then the hero narrowly avoid a flying manhole cover, which flies over the camera. When it pans back, the criminal receives webbing to the face and then the scene fads to black for a commercial.

Michelle doesn't text this time—she calls. Three times in fact. She's prepared a speech and everything about why he didn't notify her? If he's visited a doctor at the very least? Did he find something about the criminal after all this trouble? Has he—

She finds that she'd accidentally called Peter while he's still in the shower. He makes her surely regret it, smiling to himself.

* * *

Things turn to a kind of steady, accustomed grind.

There's class, the assignment given every other day. She chats with Cindy over IM, finds out that the other is returning to town soon, and hopes to get together. Michelle goes to class, job afterwards, and makes it home in time to warm up a can of soup for dinner or avoid her flatmates before there's hearted phone calls before bed.

She gets the occasional text around eleven at night that asks what she's up to? How her day was? And when something particularly heroic happens, asks if she'd watched the news that day?

Sometimes she'll be asked if she's in bed right now. Sometimes, what she's wearing. Then sometimes, what she's thinking about.

* * *

Michelle still has that pencil skirt, the rip now mended and transformed into a slit three inches above her right knee.

She presents in it for a final in class that's graded on voice, outline, organization, and dress.

To her relief, she passes.

* * *

It turns out that Peter's dorm mate receives probation before getting a mandatory removal. There's a fuss about the lease and possessions and responsibility, and it's a fucking mess, honestly.

He writes to Michelle, and she sends _**who does he think he is?**_ , and she distances herself from coming over; studying usually bounced back and forth their residents, but now it's solely at her place. But then there are times he cancels, and she has to leave abandoned behind bookbag and textbooks stacked by her window, unlocked.

She learns how to make pancakes from scratch. She replies to Peter, _**you sext like a straight White boy. You know what I mean. This isn't an argument, this is an intervention**_. And she buys a cat-shaped footstool. She learns how to slip- stitch from a YouTube tutorial video. She texts to Peter, _**it's really fucking annoying that you never leave enough cookie dough to make a full batch**_ , and she accidentally kills her window plant. She learns how to answer the homework without him.

She responds to Peter, _**comparing anyone that isn't Will Smith to Will Smith and trying to say they're iconic as him is actually insulting. No one can compare to The Smiths. No one**_ , and she binge-watches an entire season on Netflix in a single afternoon. She dyes her hair a washable intense auburn.

* * *

The sun is bright and bold one Thursday morning.

It's a month and a half later and Michelle is crossing a red lit crosswalk, holding a coffee in one hand and wearing sunglasses like she's just left a vacation in the Caribbean with Coppola Sauvignon and a rich aunt.

She's out for a meeting with her classmates. They're to meet for a group assignment—some dumb, quarter-grade assignment designed literally a week ago.

She doesn't work well in groups.

The sunglasses, which she's questioned for on the spot, are more to diverge news cameras and nosey eyes trying to connect the dots about who was the mysterious woman conversing once with Spider-Man.

Michelle gets her five seconds of fame—it doesn't even make the news that following week—but she doesn't want to be too careful.

She barely passes this assignment. She rewards herself by going out with her Pre-Med flatmate for a midnight donut run.

* * *

A week passes.

Now, Michelle is standing in front of her long mirror. She's naked; her lacy burgundy bra hangs around her fingers. She wraps her arms around herself.

She suddenly feels as exposed as she feels. Adjusting the matching panties around her waist, pulling them slightly higher, she takes another look back in the mirror.

Her phone sits on her bedside table. Her fingers flex, nails recently painted a neat coat of white.

She stares at her reflection, awkward, critical, and begins teasing her hair. Judges her assets. Turns around in the mirror. Grabs her own ass and thinks, worries.

Suddenly, her phone goes off. There's a photo attachment sent via text. On automatic, she begins downloading it. A follow up message appears below, and suddenly she's assembled enough courage to position her phone's camera for a selfie. She takes two that she's at least semi-satisfied with: one from above, her ass poking outward and her making a kissing face; the other taken through the mirror reflection, her hip popped; both a tease with an arm covering her breasts.

She sends them both with bated breath and racing heart.

The reply text makes her smile.

* * *

On Snapchat, she prefers to post less of herself, and instead, to watch other people's stories. For stories, and because she wishes to keep a certain _image_ online, for professional reasons.

Michelle's personal calendar is open, on a page filled with events and project due dates written in different colored ink—what day is half off at the local chicken joint for university students with IDs, when she had previously planned to go out for _lady's drink free_ , there's a cousin's birthday, when to do laundry. At her elbow is a lukewarm cappuccino espresso. Her curls are tied up in a messy bun. She's twirling a green ink pen when her cellphone chimes from across the small coffee shop table.

It's from Snapchat. Privately sent. Curious, Michelle swipes her screen; she's not prepared to see the message is from Liz Allan, a former high school classmate.

The message is cheery and welcoming, punctuated with an excited, smiling emoji. Michelle's fingers hover above the keys, determining her next plan of action, because she has an hour before she has to leave and the thought of Liz again creates a swirl of acidic nostalgia and anxiety. It had been completely out of the blue. But a smile grows as she re-reads the message again, and then once more, before answering with an equally enthusiastic emoji.

* * *

Michelle is invited to a party on Saturday.

"One drink," she's insisted on, because it's not like she's the designated driver, and they both passed their mid-terms, so, "why the heck not?" she's told.

Michelle smiles weakly and nods. It isn't as if she has to go home to anything. Or anyone. "One drink," she agrees, taking the glass of what she's told is rum.

She winces at the taste immediately.

The interior of the room is as dark and dingy as she predicted it to be—the walls still have framed pictures hanging here and there, wood flooring, the paint chipping off in a corner, exposing the brick beneath. The floors squeak near the bar. Green, red, blue, yellow lights and lava lamps are set up, changing every so often in an indistinguishable pattern and lighting the occupants in hazy color. The air is salty and sweet and _congested_. On the rickety, high-perched bar stools are girls showing long legs and laughing, wasted. A few young men are clustered around a black-red-and- white dartboard in the back. The latest upbeat club music plays out from tiny, outdated speakers set up in the ceiling corners. The bar is sticky with spilled alcohol.

Michelle doesn't the man until he's thrusted into her face. He's already swaying on his feet. "This is Dante," Michelle's friend introduces. She has the guy by the elbow, and Michelle forces a flat smile. "He's a, ah, _friend_ of mine. And he's in charge of the place—sorry, the people who _catered_  the place. He's studying—graphics, I think, right?" The other turns to him.

Dante nods.

Three hours later, one drink has turned into four, and Michelle's having trouble recalling precisely why she hadn't been planning on coming before, while simultaneously searching for a place to sit and rest. Her phone rests in the tight pockets of her jeans, and she's having _fun_ , and she isn't too drunk to be impaired. Michelle's having trouble why she doesn't just _sleep_ with someone like Dante? He's—well, he's handsome, and strong, and apparently won three dart games in a row which is impressive for _him_. And Michelle watches him win an arm-wrestling competition, and he's kind enough to introduce her to two more friends of his, Evan and Connor, who are funny and much more sober than either she or Dante, too—

Michelle's friend rushes through the crowd and pulls Michelle away by the arm.

"Time to go home," Michelle barely makes out over the bass of the music.

Michelle whines in question. She's dizzy, tipsy.

"Evan, Connor. You don't want to be around those guys. I should have told you to watch out for them. Plus, you're nearly completely drunk, now."

Michelle doesn't question it, too amused at a weenier dog wearing a sweater.

* * *

After she's tucked into bed, she receives a second message that followed the one in the eleven o'clock hour, two hours ago. It's a line inquiring if she's asleep or busy and alone.

Not trusting herself to text back, her thumb jams the little phone symbol in the corner.

Peter picks up on the third ring.

And Michelle's tone is hightened and she smiles into the phone as she mimics him, asking what he's called her for.

"I just wanted to hear from you. Where you sleep?" His answer sounds modest and courteous. And she'd be lying if she were to say that wasn't a turn on.

"Just the guy I wanted to hear from!" She turns onto her side. She's stripped of her jeans and bra, only in a tank top and underwear because she managed to get a splash of scotch on her blouse.

He asks what she's been up to that day, and Michelle goes off on a short rant about shitty customers and broken fire alarms and fucking _crickets_ getting inside the library, and another argument of her flatmate's, and how she was invited to a house party—

Peter breaks off and admits _that_ much he guesses himself, picking up on the slight slurring of her words at the end.

But she doesn't stop when he suggests she get a good night sleep, because she's not tired, she says, and she _just can't sleep_. So, they do talk—ten minutes turn into twenty five, which turn into forty, and soon it's nearing two hours later and Michelle is mostly sober when she offers to reveal a thought.

She asks for a fantasy, and Peter goes silent. So, she repeats, "what's the naughtiest thing you've ever thought about?" And it's likely still the alcohol talking with maybe a little of her vagina, too, but Michelle goes all in when she offers to tell hers.

Peter's quick, "go to sleep, Michelle, you're drunk," becomes his repeating answer as she continues.

She tells that she finds him attractive. Cute. That he's so noble and mannered that she feels like she likes him even more every time. That he looks _delicious_ when he turns rosy red. That she sometimes does it on purpose. That, coupled with his _fuck-me_ abs and _eat-me, MJ_ biceps has fueled her fantasies for months now. That she likes feeling him up and underneath her hands when they make out. That she would definitely eat if he asked her to.

And then she reveals the clothes she has on, asks what he'd rather happen right now.

He's quiet, but she can still hear him breathing on the other side of the line.

"And I'm not fucking _drunk_ , Peter. So don't say that," she cuts, knowing that he had been going to repeat it.

"Michelle..." he tries.

Imagine, she tells him, if they were chest to chest. Lips touching, skin touching skin. If there wasn't the layers of clothing in the way, or worse, distance. If he was right there with her, touching, breathing, caressing everything. Everywhere. She narrates in graphic detail. Asks what if her hands sliding beneath her covers, up her shirt and gliding over her breasts were his, the fingers teasing the fabric of her underwear; what his thoughts were?

She lets out a moan that's loud and lurid.

"Michelle, you should sleep." His voice is rough and almost a whisper.

"Oh shut _up_ ," she snaps. Then to illustrate her point, she recites the first ten periodic elements effortlessly and without stutter, before continuing.

* * *

This completely did not lead to phone sex, either.

* * *

(Yes it did.)

* * *

This time when Michelle woke that Sunday with three missed calls, one had been from her flatmate and the other two from her mother.

She waits until she's freshened up before calling back.

Her flatmate had been passive and more sympathetic . Her mother—not so much. When the woman answers, her voice is nearly winded and slightly annoyed.

"Thank goodness," she answers. "I was making my way to your door if you haven't called." Upon this, Michelle freezes. "My door!? Why?!"

"Church," her mother answers _as-a-mater-of-factly_. "You promised you would be there this Sunday. Since you weren't able to come last Sunday."

Michelle squeezes her eyes closed, suppressing a groan.

* * *

It's 12:07pm when Michelle arrives at the church parking lot.

She winces as sun hits her large chain-store-bought sunglasses, already able to hear the lumping, tambourines, and hand-clapping from inside the building. She questions why she agreed for today —whether it's too late to pull the sick card. But she hastily reapplies rosy blush lipstick anyway, and looks around the parking lot at all the Volvos and convertibles and SUVs. They're way past late; at this point, the choir has hit its hype pique, and there are old women stomping their feet, dancing down the aisle ways. A small crowd of preteens gather around the water fountains and in the bathrooms near this time as well. Michelle's mother teases her hair in the car window and addresses her daughter to meet her inside.

Michelle furrows her brow.

Earlier, she had told that she a bad headache, and then stretched the truth a bit that she had caught a flu, that there was homework she desperately has to finish. Her mother countered, asking why her daughter couldn't spend two hours out of her morning, and to make sure she takes some medicine before they leave. But then Michelle had been asked what things had she been doing to catch a flu so suddenly. But it isn't like she's going to tell her mother that she had gone to a stranger's house party, and so recklessly drank the day before; she isn't going to mention a word about the incidents that happened just the night before.

Michelle turns on her phone's screen to check the time—an hour and a half is all she has to make it through. There's a bottle of ibuprofen in her bag. She hopes that her eyes aren't puffy.

Her phone's lock screen is an eye-view picture of her and Peter's bare legs intwined. There's a kind of irony in this situation.

She hopes the medicine kicks in soon.

* * *

The next two days consists of second long captioned Snapchat videos sent back and forth. It's mostly a collection of Peter and Michelle recording themselves doing ordinary activities.

He sends a picture of two bananas still connected, captioning, _it's us_. She sends, _I dunno, the guy doesn't seem very appealing._

He sends a short video of himself musing his bed hair, arching a brow, before raising a bicep and flexing, captioning, _need to get back at working out. i'm slacking huh?_ She sends a respond as a video, camera zoomed and pointed upward as she takes an implying sip from her _Why the fuck am I awake?_ mug; her caption: _I can help maybe propose a few solutions. You're starting to look a little chubby, Parker._

She sends a crudely Snapped photo of a tall bar stool beside a stepping stool, the white caption text reading, _it's you and me lol._

He sends her a saved video of one day they were on her living room sofa, the phone camera from his point of view, her feet over his lap and she's in view, lazily munching on Lays Ruffles. He asks, turning the view from a clip of the ocean on tv and back to her, "hey, MJ. You remind me of the ocean." When she doesn't respond, he urges, "you know why?"

"No," is her answer.

"Because you're salty and you scare people," he goes anyway.

The phone's view jostles, it fumbling in their hands as she tries to push him off the sofa.

Through Snapchat, Peter sends a selfie of himself with the Wookie plushie she left accidentally, his chin resting on the toy's head and pouting into the camera; it's captioned, _MJ's so mean. She forgot us for movie night._

She counters with a picture of a pile of his notebooks, sweaters, textbooks, t-shirts, and book bag left over. _When he treats you like his bedroom desk...I still got your shit, loser!_

* * *

Once, he sends a Snap picture of his bed, laptop open as he begins watching a show she recommended. Michelle's response through private message is, _**beds are dangerous. You can get lost in there. Tread carefully.**_

He replies with a joke about her having more pillows than room on the actual bed compared to his.

She accepts that. _**But mine is comfier. You like mine better.**_

_It's true! It's soft and distracting. And you have warm blankets._

_**You wrap yourself up in the covers every time. It's kind of cute, too... Oh and I bet you'd look adorable grasping at the sheets.** _

_No matter how many times you compliment me, I'm not making your bed, dammit!_

_**Fuck you, Parker!** _

* * *

For the next month until June, Michelle is swamped with essays and studying for midterms and vomitting out paper thin compliments to crying flatmates, and she's given instruction to meet fellow students at an old McDonald's before finals week. She pops Tylenols and a Vitamin D pill, and swallows honey-flavored cold medicine when her throat becomes suspiciously scratchy.

The texts also slow down before stopping all together.

She would catch the occasional news recap, or see Peter swinging between buildings as she walks, but that's it.

They manage to remember to send the occasional goodnight text message. Sometimes, he'd send a photo of a group of flowers, or cartoon bee on a card, a cheap stuffed lion, or a typography balloon that he'd use to twist into some corny saying.

* * *

It stops when he tells that he's going to be taking his exams.

Days later, he attaches a selfie of himself, semi-shirtless.

She sends, "ew," and, "still a dork."

* * *

 

Over IM, Cindy forwards a screenshot of photo from her old album from high school.

"You remember when we were such dorks? And why didn't anyone stop us and warn us about our fashion?! It was _horrible!_ I look like Macklemore went and dressed me from an actual fucking thrift store."

Cindy sends a selfie of herself smiling, all teeth, luscious vibrant hills in the background. It's overly saturated. She forwards another, one of her and her extended family around a table filled with food. And then a picture showing off a cute keychain bought. She took a gap year, she tells.

She asks how Michelle is holding up with classes; gets back to learn the status of the midterms Michelle had been concerned about. During FaceTime once, Cindy walks but a stray cat, stops, squats to urge it closer with clicks and strangled noises. The animals hurries off, and Cindy cries that cats hate her.

Michelle laughs.

Her friend announces that she will be coming back to New York in the next two and a half weeks, hoping to start at a local college. She hopes to meet up with Michelle.

"You guys were so cute!" She coos on screen, liking an old photo of Michelle and Peter in the high school album. It's one of them hugging, Michelle's on tiptoes so her cheek rests on top of his head, both making comically dramatized grimaces of disgust. "And—hey, I have to ask," she starts, and Michelle waits, until Cindy blurts, "did you guys ever stay together? Because at graduation, everyone was wondering if you would."

And at first, Michelle is stunned to silence. After a brief pause, she manages out, "something like that." Hesitates. Thinks. Adds, "we still talk."

Cindy takes a few seconds longer to respond. "So you're not dating anymore?"  
It's spoken so bluntly, and Michelle never thought it had been that obvious those years.

"Oh _come on_ , MJ! We know you like a little milk with your coffee." The other can hear the smirk in Cindy's words and refuses to look back at the screen. "Besides, even Ned had been your biggest, yet almost reluctant, number one fan."

Michelle's brows are arched high. She doesn't have an immediate comeback.

* * *

Truly, the comment haunts Michelle for the next two weeks.

She gives short, one-word answers during their scheduled late night texts, four-words maximum. Now it's her acting weird, he repeats what she spoke to him months ago. But she apologizes though doesn't give a convincing reasoning.

He first sends her starting texts of an emoji with a teardrop. She gives an answer that's more of a shrug off her shoulders.

His second is a frowning, closed-eye emoji with a cold sweat drop. Her response is that she's just stressed—well that part isn't exactly a lie.

He asks her what's gotten her so stressed, and that he would like to help her de-stress, if possible.

She smiles, thankful for the offer.

But it isn't until one night does she _understand_ his intention—when she's lying on her side nearing one in the morning, overheated phone pressed to the side of her equally warm face as he so calmly tells how he could give her a firm body message. Of how he would message her shoulders, her neck; how he would so _unintentionally_ lean her neck to the side for his access, hands not stopping as they tend to the muscles down her back, of her sides, her hips, and her ass just as he would begin kissing her neck. And he would bring her leg up, his hands working down her calves, kneading her thighs, and if she pleads loud enough—in the way she knows he likes to hear— maybe he could also _maybe_ find time to work out the _kinks_ to the alluring center point between her thighs.

* * *

On the last day of June, Michelle requests for Peter to visit her place one night.

Her digital clock reads 2:19 AM. The flatmates outside her room are either playing the living room television loudly, or studying with headphones on. A rerun of the weather report announces that there's predicted to be a thunderstorm rolling around soon. In Michelle's room, the floor fan spins on the setting _low_.

She breaths into the phone, her voice low and a tab higher pitched than normal. She tells that her room's so quiet and her blankets cold, and, "you wanna come over?" She twists the fabric of her nightclothes, shuffles underneath her bed covers.

"Now?" he breathes. There's an enticing, rasping undertone to his voice.

"No, next week." She sighs exaggeratedly into the receiver, then bites her lip, glances to her locked bedroom door. "It's going to rain tonight. The weatherman said it's a lightening storm. And —I don't like being alone with the lightening tonight. So...you wanna come over?"

"Come over...?" Peter swallows. "What about your roommates?"

"Yeah. You're acting like a loser again, Peter. And they're busy right now, so..."

His jaw snaps closed. There's quiet. A deep intake through nostrils. He mumbles something, then shuffling in the background when she makes out a "be over real quick, MJ."

Michelle smiles to herself, the call ending.

* * *

She doesn't expect how swiftly he'd be over.

There's a rap at her window that makes her jump up from the edge of her bed. Michelle tucks the end of her robe under her arm as she approaches, flips the latch and helps push up her window. He slips past silent and expertly, removing his mask, and she pushes the window back down again. Outside, the skies darken as rainclouds roll in from the south. Michelle sees that he's in his Spider-Man suit, that he's brought his spare book bag slung over his shoulders, and there's an titillate, passionate ambience to his moves as he slides it to his elbow and begins listing off the items inside—hat he's brought a pack of candy and leftover baked cookies if she wants, and a flashlight with extra batteries if her electricity goes out, and also—

"Peter," her tone cuts. The room is quiet and she's stepping nearer, reveling in catching his Adam's apple bob as her hands raising to his shoulders, sliding up the sides of his neck. Her voice remains soft, virtually a whisper. "I didn't ask you to come over for some _stupid_ flashlights."

He nods, tossing the bookbag and he hovers, snakes his arms around her waist. "Yeah. I know."

Michelle scratches at the nape of his neck, testing the waters.

There's less of a hesitation this time; and suddenly there's a desperate, consuming clash of teeth, amorous lips, and nails scratching across skin as she pulls him closer, hands on either side of his face, and she can feel his fingers pressing harshly into the flesh of her sides. There's a shaky, deep inhale through nostrils before they break apart briefly, and then there's tongue and there's grabbing at clothes, and Michelle holds him tight, eager and craving, noses pressing, as his hands slide to paw her ass, and she releases a wanton moan into his mouth when the room suddenly grows ten degrees hotter.

She's half-naked, stripped bare beneath her robe, and she's both _cold_ and overheating—it's a strange sensation, a welcoming sensation—as he pulls her close to be flush against him. The kiss softens. Her nails drag across his left cheek, feeling his hands seem to search for a fold or hold beneath her robe, effortlessly making their way up to her ribs before they stop below her breasts. And there's a wrinkle of confusion between his brows that Michelle finds comical and adorable.

"There a problem?" A smirk begins tugging at her face.

His eyes open, the kiss stopping. He shakes his head, wearing those puppy eyes again as his gaze bounces from hers to the neckline of her robe to her lips to her neck, back to her eyes, and all over again.

She gives a peck on his lips before taking his hand and leading him to the edge of her bed. A hand cradles his cheek as she brings him near again. This time the kiss is calmer, controlled, gentler—a hand of his sits atop hers and gripping the bed's sheets.

After some time, she pauses. "Peter, you ok?"

He's staring back almost in alarm and slightly winded. "Y-yeah. Why?"

Michelle bites her lip, gaze un-breaking, and feeling a stimulating twist in her gut at the scratch of his voice. "You're quiet," she explains.

"Oh! Sorry—I—it's nothing, I promise."

"You want to leave? Stop?" She's searching his eyes.

Now, he's bemused. "No...! MJ, everything's fine—everything's great—"

"You sure?" She pulls the sides of her untied robe closed. "Because—I was just thinking—I thought—"

And she's made silent by his hand wrapping around the back of her neck and his mouth is against hers again.

"I'm sure," he purrs.

"Oh, you're eager, huh?" she smiles against him.

He hums in response as a hand dances across her closest knee before sliding up and drawing tiny circles in her thigh, drawing closer every so often, getting a rise from her breathes coming out shorter and quicker the further up her robe his hand journeyed.

The rainclouds near. Thunder rumbles off in the distance, and Peter gives her thigh a squeeze. Her bedroom is dark, the only light the power button from her off television and the streetlights—but that's more than enough.

Suddenly, the kiss breaks. An all-too-bewildered Peter watches in silence as Michelle swings her legs up and around so that she's straddling his lap and peering down into his eyes and he's automatically gripping the naked curve of her waist beneath her robe like she's his tether, like she's _anchoring_ him to something, something important, and it's frightening and it's immense at how intensely this feeling is, about how he's gazing up at her like she's the inevitable solution to every little thing.

She's kissing him before she can stop herself, before another thought arises, and he's combing his fingers through the tangled curls of her hair and she's wishing that this moment could last.

There's the sound of crickets chirping a lonely, dissonant melody.

His grip steadily tightens and loosens, fingers slide to drum down the winding curve of the of her back, stopping at the waistband of her panties, and teases a finger under the elastic.

The slip and slide of her sheets against her knees are quiet and smooth and gentle.

She reaches up, drags her fingertips across his cheeks and his jaw and his neck.

The moments stretch. The air feels tight and excited and sensuous. Thunder rumbles; lighting cracks, illuminating the room.

And then suddenly, he's kissing her and it's explosive and chaotic and she feels it in her _toes_ , feels them curl at the sensation, feels it flutter around her abdomen and snatch the breath from the back of her throat.

And then she's leaning, arching backwards so she can peel her robe off, and he can only sputter as Michelle leans back to look him in the face, completely bare save for a pair of underwear—lace, and identical to the ones send in semi-nude selfies—and he's staring and looking back and forth between her breasts and her face like it's the first time. His grip stills at her hips.

A giggle arises from her at his boyish response. Takes his wrists to raise them to the sides of her breasts, indicating for him to touch at his own accord. Leaning near his ear, she chuckles, "what? It's not you _haven't_ seen me naked before."

He swallows, and he's gone rigid beneath her. "I know...it's just been a while, you know?"

And then—he's sucking at the pulse point on her neck, mumbling praises into her skin that steadily fall from him like a faucet left on; praises about how beautiful she is, how soft she feels, how _just right_ she molds against him, how sexy she looks. How he wants to feel more, see more,hear it from her. And she considers how easy it would be to close her eyes and get lost in the _sensation_ of it all—her thighs bracket his hips and her head lulls back as a sigh comes from her lips and his breath on her neck—but she'd come with a goal, and intends to stick to it. But his name is on her tongue and his hands are on her breasts and his thumbs drag at a leisurely pace around her perked nipples, and she doesn't realize how turned on she is until a moan that's a _little too high_ slips out. He pulls her closer and she can feel his muscles constrict and relax beneath his suit, and her heels are dangling off the bed, and then he's slouching, spreading his legs further apart as he sucks with teeth, seeming determined to leave a visible bruise, and Michelle moans. It's loud and unintentional; quickly covering her mouth in part embarrassment, and part because her flatmates. Detecting her insecurity, from the crook of her neck, Peter mumbles how her noise had been _so hot_ and wonders aloud if she could do it again.

Michelle's fingers are _slightly_ clumsy as they drag down his shoulders, down his chest, across his abdomen—she focuses on feeling the indents of his muscles through his suit. A thought occurs of how unfair it is that he's still fully clothed—and then her wrist brushes across the protruded swelling of his crotch.

Then she's asking for his lips as her fingertips slide up the line of his bulge, and she's _grinning_ when he inhales sharply through his nose. He stops, his face buries into her shoulder as she drags her fingers down and then back up, and when she feels him twitch in her hand, twines the fingers of her other hand into his hair. Her moves are deathly slow, alternating between the soft pads of her fingertips to the teasing of her nails, making him twitch, groan, feeling his semi beginning to stand on end. He lets out an uneven sigh.

"God," the word drags out in time with her fingers reaching his tip. The smile is easily heard in her voice. "I didn't know Spider-Man can get a hard-on."

"Michelle," he begs, head still buried in her shoulder. He bites his lip.

"I didn't think that was even possible," she teases, continuing as if she hadn't heard him. Feels him shutter against her. Pauses. "Does this feel good?"

He nods lazily.

Her pattern changes—her palm slides against him now, the best she could through his suit—and his breath speeds up a bit as her hand does. "How about this?"

"Don't stop..."

And she doesn't. Alternating in no specific pattern between nails, fingertips, and her open palm jerking him off the best she could through his suit, but it doesn't provide much room to stretch. Idly, she remembers his mask had been tossed off along with his bag and is somewhere in the darkness of her room. Lightening crackles, flashes across her bedroom walls.

Peter's still has his hands on her small breasts, and gives a tease of her nipples or squeeze of her flesh every so often.

The sounds of the city work as background noise—a trashcan falling over, the screeching of tires, a dog barking, a track of Southern blues playing from a neighboring building.

Peter begins working on another bruise on her neck when she gets an idea: stopping abruptly, she tugs at the neckline of his suit, asking how to get the darn thing off. So, taking a moment to process, Peter's hair is wildly teased as he presses the spider emblem on his chest, the suit expanding and falling off his shoulders. He's given a moment to stand and shimmy out of it before she's in his face again, a hand to his bare chest, nails racking up from the waistband of his boxers to his chest, ushers him to lean back on her bed.

Michelle is quite confident when she climbs to straddle him again but instead pushes him to lay flat across the mattress, pressing her lips to his once more. And she's got her hands on him as she's eagerly feeling him up, ass arching up, and breathing a sigh when he begins kneading her ass and her breasts and her hips and it's like he can't _decide,_ like he needs to touch her _everywhere,_ all at once; and she would _giggle_ about it if for the squeezes gives. She drags her finger down and follows the line of hair beneath his naval that's teased her so, flattens the curve of her palm over the front of his boxer's waistband and _lingers,_ un-rushed and unhurried, thumb barely grazing the material of his cotton boxers. He doesn't exactly tense beneath her, but there's an expectation, a brief hesitation. Instead, she shifts—lowers onto his crotch; she grinds her pelvis into his, shivering as his bulge presses against her center, and he groans and she bites her lip as she begins adding friction. It's _slow,_ it's a steady ripple coasting through them like shockwaves, and hands twine and there's slow kisses, his abdomen tensing and relaxing in time with her movements that arise sweet moans and lustful gibberish and curse words from him. He's hard against her, and Michelle feels a surge of near _pride_ as his " _fuck, baby...God...just like that_ " fill the darkness of her bedroom.

Michelle nearly laughs at this, having New York's grand superhero under her, a blushing, moaning mess.

She works her hips faster.

Outside her bedroom, the living room television plays as background sound. Lightening crashes again, the thunder not far behind. Rain pelts the glass of her window.

Michelle's pulse is racing.

Peter shifts to lean up to kiss her.

Her thighs clench around him and there's a feeling of a tingling coil of arousal within her. She loves the shade of red he's flushing.

Tossing her hair, she groans, arching her spine and displaying her breasts as the grinding speeds momentarily; Peter's hands are holding her waist tightly again. Then she suddenly slows. And it's known that Michelle isn't shy. She isn't coy; she knows what she wants, holding his one hand tightly. And she's loud and outspoken when she leans forward, her teeth graze the thin tissue shell of his ear as she teases him, whispering, "I think I'm going to fuck you tonight."

She feels him shutter from her breath.

It all goes according to her plan after that. Michelle is rubbing off against him, her pace increasing, aided with the occasional upward thrust of his hips as they feel the end building in their cores. His fingernails bite into her hips. She lets out a mewl, a gasp, a command for him to move again. And it all goes according to her plan until he doesn't move as she says, and Michelle sobs, the pleasure of her release nearing; she's flipped over without warning and an un-characteristic gasp. Her mouth is dryer than salt, tongue sticking to the outside of her lips, and she's lying on her large, comfortable bed with faded indigo blue sheets and walnut wood headboard. The rain pours down heavily outside.

Peter's head shakes, forehead against the delicate wings of her collar bone, and he's winded, she can hear, as he swallows, wets his lips, and voice thick, "I—MJ—can't—last—need a minute."

She thinks she hears an owl hoot and take flight behind his breaths across her chest. Something metal clatters far outside her room.

When she's guessed he's caught his breath is when he begins kissing down her neck, the valley between her breasts, and spreads her knees, hooking one long leg around his waist as his kisses travels back up to return to her mouth. And she idly wonders if this is a distraction from her declaration earlier, wrapping her arms around his neck to deepen the kiss; she feels his left hand slide down her thigh, him adjusting between her legs, and—

Michelle chokes out a moan as he continues their mutual grinding. Her nails press into his shoulders, her hips matching his pattern as their hips rock, and his right fingers almost clumsily squeeze between them to find her clit. As his fingers work, the pace increases; Michelle's eyes grow heavy, needful whimpers coming from her he goes on about how nice this view is, how pretty she looks for him, how slick and wet she is as he rubs her off through her underwear.

He pushes two of his fingers inside her through her underwear, and it's then her rasping panting _moan_ that slices through the thick haze swirling around his mind, and there's disheveled dark ringlets of her hair tossed as he begins scissoring inside her, the petal-soft curve of her cheekbones and her breasts arched to the air and against him once when he maneuvers around the fabric of her underwear, and then with every flick of his wrist and every helpless rocking roll of his hips and he's barely kissed her again and she's barely let him but she doesn't stop him now as he leans down to.

"Not fair," she sobs.

And he goddamn _chuckles._

The sensation of his fingers inside her velvet-wet clutch wrings out whimpers and hisses from the back of her throat.

He goes still unexpectedly. Nothing happens.

Michelle reminds with a tug at his hair how she's supposed to be the one in charge, tries to flip them back over, but his other hand on her hip prevents this accomplishment. And almost as punishment, when he moves his hand inside again, when he rubs a tight, slick little circle, just fucking _one,_ around the swollen nub of her clit—she _shudders,_ because the calluses on his hands are rough against her skin and her blood is rushing hot and fierce and rapid and she wants to cum, she does, she wants to cum, she wants to cum, she wants to _cum._

"More," she whines as a surrender, arching up against his chest.

He gives another flick of his fingers and she bites her lip to stifle another sob, gives a wriggle in reflex. He adds a third, and she gasps in relief. An incoherent string of words come from her as she twists, his thumb rubbing shapes against her clit.

"Come again," he taunts. Michelle groans. "F— _fuck—!_ "

"C'mon, 'Chelle. You got to speak clearly if you want me to hear. Thought you said you were gonna fuck _me_. What happened?"

She wants to curse at him, but is far too weak, too preoccupied with crescendoing shockwaves washing over her to do so. "Fuck me!" comes out. Then, she's begging, "fuck me, Peter, fucking —fuck me!"

And she wants to push him for this, she does.

A kiss is placed on her neck that's far too gentle as he removes his fingers from her ruined panties. He revels in her whimper as he breaks away to ask where she keeps condoms—in the bottom drawer of her bedside table, behind the menstrual supplies. She shimmies out of her underwear as does he, then he's rolling on the condom.

Immediately, Michelle pulls him by the neck into a kiss that's all tongue and _thirst,_ and he's spreading her legs apart, one hand guiding himself to her entrance, her nails dragging through his hair. And when he slides inside, her back arches, breath catches. Tenses. Waits. Sighs. A few moments are given for her to readjust before she's rocking against him, indicating for him to move, and getting a deep groan from him.

Though Michelle declared that she had been going to fuck him that night, she isn't objecting; and between the soft knocking of her headboard that's already been pulled from the wall, his coarse words and teases in her ear, and the faint Louisiana blues changing to jazz outside, she relaxes against him and into the sheets.

She's got her legs wrapped around his lower back and fucking _groaning_ in his mouth when he gives an appointed grind, pulls away to lift one knee over his shoulder, and then he's at such a delicious angle that grinds against her clit _perfectly,_ and she's all but actually crying his name now like he's instructing and she doesn't think she'll last long, she doesn't, and Michelle is wriggling and panting and gives high, incoherent words in pleasure and she's—

She's beautiful when she comes.

When she comes—when she arches her back and clutches his shoulders and cries out—her orgasm isn't quick, isn't stunning like the explosiveness of a Fourth of July fireworks. It's _slow,_ it's a ripple and then a _wave_ and then a coasting cresting _crash_ that reminds her of lazy kisses in the shade, of languid, sneaky touches in humid summer nights.

She's still riding out hers when she feels Peter breath against her shoulder. "I love you," he gasps, not letting go. "I love you—" And then he tenses; there's violent shuttering, and then he's still.

They fall asleep to the sound of rain, wearing randomly chosen t-shirts from a drawer and spare underwear.

She doesn't remember to set an alarm. So, she wakes up an hour late and a string of unanswered text messages and speeds through getting dressed, grabbing one of Peter's jackets he's left over.

Until she realizes, abruptly, too late, that Peter doesn't know the schedule her flatmates use the bathrooms.

* * *

Michelle has coffee with Cindy the morning after. Albeit, Michelle is nearly an hour late.

Oversleeping is her excuse. And to her relief, the other doesn't seem to question it—until they've been sitting down and discussing politics and Sartre and travels when Cindy asks around the rim of her cup just _coincidently_ as Michelle begins to drink.

"So, how's the pink dick?"  
Michelle nearly spits out her coffee. "C—come again?!"

"Do you _really_ expect me to believe that you're just talking with Peter? And, isn't that his jacket?" Cindy points at the black polyester jacket Michelle wears.

And once more, the girl is shocked silent, unsure of what to tell and what is too much, unsure between her pride and insecurities and nonchalance.

Cindy raises a brow, expectantly.

Defeated, Michelle takes a look around, making no one familiar is there to see as she raises her cup back to drink, winking and giving a little nod in answer.

* * *

Peter Parker sleeps with Michelle Jones for the second time on a Friday.

There's an open bar at some semi-classy place on the outskirts of downtown. There's some moping around fairly obviously at the edge of the dance floor, and some pretty girl in a fitted dress is drinking straight from a bottle of Smirnoff—so Michelle can't be blamed for Peter alcohol-craved decision to drag her away for a night to the place. It isn't _too_ bad—a giant step forward from the house party had been to last time. And the bar's counter is shiny and clean, the high stools plush, and the music is actually _decently_ chosen. And she welcomes the hand on her back that leads her to an empty private room.

He says he couldn't resist.

Similarly, she can't be blamed for the way she tugs away her dress—a short, blue lace fabric type with an open back, spaghetti straps, and frayed lace at the bottom—and he can't be blamed for the way he lifts her up against the wall—her arm pushing out of her way an undoubtedly standard, Dollar Store-bought picture frame onto the floor in the process—or the way Peter soon drops to his knees and spreads her thighs as wide as they can go—

He hadn't gone down on her the last night, which he reasons now is an almost criminal offense that needs to be rectified—because, honestly, he's fucking _good_ at it, if he'd say so himself. (And he does.) Peter's good at lots of things, of course—like taking beautifully composed photographs, calculating three digit numbers in his head, and swinging several stories high and past skyscrapers—but he's _really_ good at _this,_ studies show.

And so, he fits his mouth over the center of her apex, presses his thumb against her clit, uses his tongue to circle and sweep and flick, and, _fuck!_ —and he can feel her fingernails digging into his scalp, guiding his head, and she's making those _sounds,_ high-pitched and helpless and greedy, and he's about as hard as he thinks he can take and she's fucking _begging._ He can't help the low, gravelly groan that snakes out as he teases and sucks and swallows and her pressing her hips into his face, content on riding his face—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **yeah i'm not too proud of this, but i wrote the majority of this late at night in any case. my challenge here is done.**   
>  **I feel like this is god-awful. Shoot a complain and/or critic please. You can also go there to complain to me if it's just God awful, or even not, or just for any worries. Any words, good or bad, are greatly appreciated.**


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